Every Year I Am Here

Chapter 2-2-2

Up ahead, the Edward Street ferry pulled into the wharf, which served to set Lillian’s spirits right once and for all. No dawdling, simply a step aboard for the final leg of the trip. It would not do to be late.

As she turned into Shafston Road, the Shaws’ immaculate mansion loomed up ahead. The large brick house decorated with lacy balustrade was set back into a sprawling front lawn and separated from the street by a white picket fence. Even as shadows began to fall across the grass court stretching alongside the property, Mrs Shaw and her daughter, Olivia, continued to play a tennis match. With a sigh, Lillian stepped over the property’s threshold and braced herself for another week of domestic drudgery.

A rush of wind overhead frightened her. She batted her hands in the air and looked up in time to see a black-and-white blur materialise into a magpie. The fiend alighted in the branches of a large elm planted inside the gate and stared down. Not wishing to receive another dive-bombing, Lillian raced to the back porch. Except for a cursory glance to see what the fuss had been about, the players ignored her, as was their custom. She would have received a greater shock if Mrs Shaw and Olivia had rushed over to try with their rackets to save her from the bird.

Still perturbed, Lillian entered the house and traipsed up two flights of stairs to the stuffy attic she shared with Catherine. Her roommate was a Scotswoman who spoke with a thick Glaswegian brogue and, other than her sister, was the only friend Lillian felt she had. With Patricia so busy with Alfred, her children, and keeping up the cottage, it had been a relief to find another ally. At three years older, Catherine always seemed to have a word of wisdom to help keep her spirits up.

For the moment though, the room was empty. In fact, the whole house seemed far too quiet. Mrs Menzies, who doubled both as cook and housekeeper, would be outside collecting herbs or feeding scraps to the chickens. In her hurry to get inside, Lillian hadn’t had time to look around the garden. She didn’t know when Catherine would return from visiting her friends. It couldn’t be much longer; dinner needed to be prepared and ready to serve by six o’clock.

Lillian unbuttoned her boots and slipped them off her stockinged feet. They had gathered plenty of dust from the roads that afternoon. She dipped her handkerchief into the pitcher sitting on the washstand. It still held some water from her morning wash. She’d been in too much of a rush to finish her chores and leave for Patricia’s to bother emptying it. Picking up a boot and dotting two eyes and a slip of a smile on to the leather, she then reached over to the dresser and retrieved a polish kit. Mrs Shaw might not worry herself about saving a servant from an avian attacker but she would notice immediately if Lillian dared serve her dinner up while looking the slightest bit shabby.

Beyond the closed door, the floorboards emitted a steady squeaking. Catherine must have returned. Lillian expectantly waited to greet her but Donald Shaw poked his head around the door instead. His face broke into a grin. From the hopeful look, he obviously believed she was happy to see him.

She clutched her quilt and froze. He’d never been so brazen.

‘Hello, Lillian.’

‘Hello,’ she murmured back.

Donald slid inside the room and sauntered over, taking one of the bedstead’s brass domes into his palm to caress it. Seizing an uninvited seat, he took in the meagre decorations around the room: a portrait of Catherine’s brothers hanging on the wall, a silver candlestick on the nightstand that had been Lillian’s mother’s, and a cast-off embroidered hand towel hanging off the washstand. Donald’s silk waistcoat and the gleaming gold watch chain hanging from his breast pocket made a mockery of the sparseness.

‘Did you have a pleasant time at your sister’s this afternoon?’

‘Yes, I did. Thank you for asking.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He smoothed the worn pattern on her quilt with his long, well-manicured fingers.

Donald was Mr and Mrs Shaw’s younger son. At twenty, he was a full year older than she was. Lord knew her mother and Patricia had drummed in the message of abstinence the moment her monthly blood began to flow. It was unfair of him to dangle himself in front of her like a carrot on a string before a goat. She could have screamed. She could have run right out the door. The path was clear.

Lillian didn’t want to do either. After all, Donald had been the secret object of her desire since the moment he’d strolled, c**k-sure, into the kitchen while she’d been working and stolen a thick slice of ham off a serving platter. He’d put a finger to his lips and winked at her right as Mrs Menzies – cantankerous woman that she was – turned around and caught him red-handed.

Lillian had struggled to contain her laughter.

‘Get away, you scallywag!’ Mrs Menzies had shouted.

The cold cut was intended for him anyway. It was of no consequence to Donald whether he took it by stealth or had it served up to him alongside the rest of the family. He’d simply bowed his head with mock contrition at the cook’s tirade and retreated to the dining room.

They were lucky, Mrs Menzies, Catherine and herself. Donald possessed a naturally sunny disposition. The trouble for Mrs Menzies was she had known him since he was a rambunctious child. Now he’d grown into manhood, he was well within his rights to order them all about, and yet he refrained. His spoilt little sister, Olivia, on the other hand, was a churlish, sly witch of a girl who took every opportunity to remind all of them of their proper station within the house.

Lillian felt light-headed with Donald sitting on her bed cheekily beckoning her to come sit a little closer. Did he forget she was the one who had the task of emptying his chamber pot each morning? She knew more about his bowel habits than he did, yet being the recipient of such unsavoury knowledge did nothing to discourage her affection for him.

She had a ridiculous urge to confess what had happened at Dutton Park that afternoon. Perhaps her callousness would shock him enough to leave her alone for good? What did he care about women’s private matters? He might even report her. She couldn’t risk losing such a bright flame in an otherwise dull existence.

Donald, who rode a strong mare and had been born with a cricket bat in his hands, would never understand the desperation that drove a young woman to discard her own flesh and blood. Lillian could scarcely make sense of the woman’s actions herself. Would he shudder if she pulled back the curtain on the reality life held for lesser mortals? All those very same reasons were precisely why she found him so attractive. Donald understood how to enjoy his privilege and made no apologies for it. He lent her a glimmer of hope that one day – if she made very good decisions – it would be possible to be able to do the same, despite their beginnings in life being so unequal.

Undeterred by her reluctance, Donald edged closer and slowly connected the tips of their fingers. She held her breath and kept her eyes firmly fixed on his. He did not make personal resolutions easy to keep.

‘I missed seeing your friendly face about the house today,’ he said.

‘I –’

His lips were upon hers quickly and hungrily. She pressed into his hands that were pawing at her blouse.

A steady thumping of boots shook them both immediately to their feet before Catherine entered the small space.

‘Och, no!’ The Scotswoman scanned the scene before her and, deciding no harm had yet been done, barged past to plonk down on her own bed. ‘Get out of here, Donald. Yer cannae get Lillian and me into trouble.’

He raised his palms to show the moment between them was well and truly dispelled and exited without objection. Lillian wished he wouldn’t let Catherine push him around; she was only a servant.

‘For Christ’s sake, Lil. Cannae ye at least be locking the door?’ Catherine lay back, flung an arm across her eyes and loudly yawned.

‘I didn’t invite him in.’

‘I dinnae care whit yer do but at least be careful, hen. Why yer’d want to spend any time with that cheeky bastard is completely beyond me.’

‘He’s not! Donald works very hard and has impeccable manners.’

‘If his manners are so impeccable, whit’s he doing in a room he shouldnae be with a maid whose reputation is the only thing of value she has?’

Lillian poked out her tongue and fetched her apron and cap from where they hung on a hook on the back of the door. Catherine had an answer for everything.

As her infuriating friend’s eyes were concealed, Lillian retrieved with some difficulty the bank note from where it had slipped down inside her corset. She crouched beside her bed and rummaged under the mattress to find a slit she had created months ago. The note slid between her other treasures: a cherished illustrated copy of her childhood favourite, Pinocchio, the only photograph ever taken of herself and a small cloth bag filled with hard-saved coins. She would need to find a better long-term solution for all these items but for now there was no time. She rose and finished tying her apron strings about her waist before securing the cap to her hair with several hairpins.

‘Catherine, aren’t you going to come down and help?’

‘Aye, in a wee bit. By the way, I’d be putting those paints back from where they came before anybody discovers yer’ve been thieving.’

Lillian’s basket and its paraphernalia jutted halfway out from beneath the bed, where she’d hastily kicked it as Donald entered.

She blushed. ‘I was only borrowing them.’

‘I won’t tell Mrs Shaw yer a crook if yer dinnae tell her I was taking a wee nap instead of getting ready to work.’ Catherine slowly lifted her arm and winked. ‘By the way, if I’d wanted to steal yer things I’d have done it a long time ago. Yer far too suspicious.’

So Catherine knew about her hiding place after all? Lillian sheepishly plucked the paint box from the basket. She quickly rinsed the brushes but left them and the sketchbook behind. She’d managed to save for the latter by withholding two measly pennies a week from Alfred and Patricia.

Heading down one flight of stairs to the first floor, Lillian ventured on to the landing and paused to make sure nobody else was about. The dull and steady rhythmic thwacking of a tennis ball on catgut strings satisfied her the ladies of the house were still busy playing tennis, despite there being scarcely any light left to see by. She continued along to Olivia’s room, carefully turned the brass doorknob to avoid squeaking and entered.

Shut safely inside the cavernous and rather luxuriously appointed room, Lillian crept over to the cherrywood writing desk stationed beneath the tall sash window. She pulled open the lid and slid the paintbox back on to a little shelf where it had been sitting that morning.

She never feared being caught; she was quite adept at arranging items so the owner never noticed a thing missing. Pickpocketing clients who had imbibed one too many glasses of Madame Claudette’s finest brandy was a skill all the children she had grown up with had quickly honed, even if Patricia liked to pretend she’d been above such dishonesty. Even if the men who frequented the bawdy house realised they’d been robbed, they were unlikely to report the petty crime to a constable. For her own part, how else was she going to further her education and interests if she wasn’t prepared to make use of the available equipment needed to be able to do so? A lady should be well-versed in literature and art and that was precisely what Lillian intended to be one day; a lady, and a sophisticated one at that. She didn’t know quite how just yet, but it was certainly going to happen. It infuriated her to see expensive materials go to waste when there was an opportunity to make some money from them. If she could demonstrate her artistic ability to the owners of one of the exclusive shops, perhaps the offer of an apprenticeship would be forthcoming. The cinders in her belly stoked into flames at the thought.

It had been obvious to all of Rosemead’s occupants that Olivia’s foray into watercolours was going to be brief. The spiteful girl had furiously balled up a failed landscape in front of her father when he’d dared to compliment her and thrown the offending page straight into the lit drawing-room fireplace. While Mr Shaw was a very successful and formidable solicitor, it appeared he was no match for his spoilt sixteen-year-old daughter. Lillian felt quite certain Olivia had long forgotten she even owned the paintbox. Still, she hoped Catherine wouldn’t use the knowledge of her misconduct to hold her to ransom later. It was true the Scot had never given any reason for Lillian to doubt her but one could never be too careful.

Shuffling steps sounded out on the landing. Lillian held her breath lest she was about to be caught without even a cloth in her hand for dusting. There should be no other reason at that time of the evening for her to be entering Olivia’s bedroom. Catherine was the one who took care of the linen and bed-making, not her. The fear of punishment made her shiver. Whoever it was passed by, much to her relief. She hastily exited and hurried down the final flight of stairs into the safety of the kitchen.

Mrs Menzies had reappeared and was busy setting a pie on the table next to a freshly picked bunch of parsley that needed chopping.

‘There you are, Lillian! Where have you been? And where’s Catherine?’

Mrs Menzies never seemed pleased to see either girl. Lillian supposed the chore of coordinating cooked meals for ten mouths every single night was enough of a reason for the woman’s prickly demeanour. The cook used the same accusing tone as Patricia had earlier. Unlike Patricia, Mrs Menzies would not relent for an embroidered excuse. Lillian wisely kept her mouth shut and did her best to look contrite.

‘Here. The family will be inside shortly for their tea. Go set the silver. Once you’ve done that, come back and start cutting up those herbs.’ Mrs Menzies wiped her hands on her apron and pointed at the parsley.

Lillian did as she was told.

When the family had assembled around the mahogany table, their patriarch, Mr Henry Shaw, closed his eyes and delivered grace with his usual aplomb. Lillian suppressed a laugh at Donald’s irreverent glances as his father’s tightly closed eyes sent bushy eyebrows dancing. It was frivolity on her part to think Donald might hold sincere affection toward her. Surely he thought of her as no more than a toy? Play with her he certainly had those past few months.

Even the sight of Fergus, Donald’s older brother, also still a bachelor – with his immaculately pomaded hair and handkerchief peeping from his breast pocket – failed to amuse her that evening. Ordinarily she found Fergus a source of fascination. He courted a carousel of women, being eligible with inheritable wealth and a position at his father’s firm. He also enjoyed horsing about with Alfred and the other chaps they’d attended school with more than ten years ago. That evening, though, her thoughts continued to be clouded by the baby she’d been forced to leave in the park.

‘Whit’re yer doing?’

The carpet came into focus and Lillian realised she’d been caught head down in a stupor. Catherine had slipped up behind her and she hadn’t even noticed.

‘Nothing.’

‘Olivia’s been staring daggers at yer, waiting for her glass to be refilled.’

Lillian glanced across the table and saw the sour girl scowling back. She hurried over with the decanter.

‘Best be getting yerself back to the kitchen before Cook throws a right wee fit,’ said Catherine as Lillian returned to her side.

She clutched at Catherine’s sleeve. ‘I’ve done a terrible thing.’

‘Well whitever it is, hen, surely it cannae be as bad as holding up the dinner service. Come on now.’

Lillian dutifully followed her back to the kitchen and refilled the decanter as Catherine retrieved a large dish of roasted vegetables from the sideboard. Despite the steaming aroma tantalising her nostrils, Lillian’s appetite had completely disappeared.

Outside, darkness descended the same way it had inside her.